If echoes from the fitful past Could rise to mental view, Would all their fancied radiance last Or would some odors from the blast, Untouched by Time, accrue? Is present pain a future bliss, Or is it something worse? For instance, take a case like this: Is fancied kick a real kiss, Or rather the reverse? Is plenitude of passion palled By poverty of scorn? Does Fiction mend where Fact has mauled? Has Death its wisest victims called When idiots are born?
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